Grandpa’s Underwood was a Creature of Myth. The day it arrived the mayor and the pharmacist had been invited to dinner in order to see it. It had been set up in the middle of the oak table and shrouded with a green headscarf. When the time came to serve the dessert, which had cost a dozen eggs, a whole pat of butter, five bars of chocolate and goodness knows how many diambarne de l’ostias, the Creature was jointly unveiled by the hands of Grandma and Aunt Maria, who thus presented it to the master of the household. Grandpa rose, bowed to the assembled company and, unsheathing his crafty smile, said: ‘Many thanks to the Spada girls, whom next year I will repay with a novel written on…on…but we must give it a name!’ And with both forefingers he pointed at the Creature. ‘Come on, help me choose a name.’
The pharmacist said, ‘Babel.’
The mayor said, ‘Alcyone.’
‘Alcyone,’ echoed the mayor’s wife.
Grandma said, ‘Bidet.’
Aunt Maria said, ‘Nerina.’
I said, ‘Greymouth.’
From her corner, silent and motionless, Teresa followed the whole scene. And while Loretta was starting on her round with the Sachertorte, Grandpa, resuming his seat, said, ‘Beelzebub.’
And Beelzebub it was.
Before being put to use, Beelzebub was subjected by all the men present to a close inspection. It was measured with a ruler which they sent me upstairs to fetch. The base measured 30cm by 27cm, and it stood 26cm in height. ‘It’s almost a cube!’ exclaimed the mayor, at which his wife assented gravely.
The pharmacist was very interested in the mechanics, and loved the little wheels, whether they were smooth or toothed, and he ended up getting ink from the ribbon all over his fingers.
Grandpa, on the other hand, was bewitched by the keys. He stroked them one by one. Four rows of them arranged in four tiers. In each little white silver-edged circle a black letter, including even Y and J, K and W! The semicircle of little hammers already made his fingers itch. His eyes sparkled.
I felt an urge to join Grandma and the Third Paramour. For no particular reason I thought they might know something about the Englishman. Grandpa followed me, saying that his novel could wait until the afternoon. ‘I’m not in the mood today. I can feel it when Beelzebub isn’t going to be helpful.’
All muffled up, coat collars up to our ears, we entered the church. It was dark in there, but not so much that it hid the way things had been neglected. The windows were almost black, the altars dulled with dust, and not even the candles of the tabernacle were burning. Grandma was kneeling at the confessional, her upright shoulders draped with black lace. I knew that her attitude to religion was occasional, and merely for form’s sake. When I saw the priest emerge from the sacristy my suspicion became a certainty: inside the confessional was the Englishman. We sat down in one of the rear pews. When Don Lorenzo spotted Grandpa he made a face like one finding a rat in his soup. ‘What brings you into the House of the Lord?’
Grandpa cleared his throat, though he would have liked to have cast in the priest’s face one of Teresa’s diambarne de l’ostias. I held my tongue, hoping only that the priest didn’t come anywhere near me. Even his cassock stank of wet dog. Grandma stood up. She crossed herself, and slipped a piece of paper into her handbag. Before she could close the bag Renato, appearing suddenly from the other side of the confessional, snatched it from her and crumpled it up in his fist. Grandma pulled an indignant face, but did nothing. She came and sat in the pew in front of us. Renato approached the priest and, stooping a little, said rather loudly, ‘Don Lorenzo, I would like to light a candle to Our Lady.’
‘Those filthy swine used them all up, but I had just a few put aside.’ He rolled one fist around in the palm of his other hand. ‘I’ll be back in a moment.’ And indeed he was. He emerged from the sacristy with three candles, which he set up under the statue with its perpetual dozy smile. He knelt for an instant. Then he rose and said to Renato, ‘Here you are then.’ The steward lit the middle candle. Then he made the sign of the cross and whispered something into the priest’s ear that made him rush off, scowling furiously. Renato opened his fist, read the message, then held it to the flame as the priest went back into the sacristy. At this point the pilot emerged from the confessional.
‘Is it all clear?’ asked Grandma.
‘As crystal,’ answered Brian, and followed Renato into the sacristy.
At that very moment, in the doorway two steps from Grandma and me, appeared Captain Korpium.
Had he caught sight of Brian? My fear was banished as soon as the captain, with his exquisite accent, addressed Grandma: ‘On Friday the Swedish ambassador is due to arrive at Refrontolo. Would you care to join us for dinner? Your husband, your grandson and Donna Maria would also be most welcome. Your company would cheer up this old soldier.’ The captain straightened like a ramrod and clicked his heels. Then he let out the magic words he had saved till last: ‘There will be roast pork.’
‘I do think you might have waited for us to leave the church before issuing your invitation, Captain,’ said Grandma Nancy. ‘However, I thank you, also in the name of Donna Maria.’
Grandpa got to his feet with a fearful glower.
‘And that of my husband,’ added Grandma.
Korpium departed, somewhat ruffled.
Grandpa scratched his belly and threw back his head a bit, saying, ‘I sometimes catch myself adoring your sharp tongue, my dear.’
Grandma got up too. While she was marching out through the doorway the Third Paramour – who all this time had been sitting some way back – followed her with an air of challenge.
Ten
THE CODE. THE CODE WAS THE KEY TO EVERYTHING. GRANDMA was the brains behind it, Brian the messenger, Renato the intermediary. Less clear were the roles of Donna Maria, Grandpa and myself. We were certainly in a sense accomplices, but I got the impression that we were nothing but the garnishings to their roast.
Our attempt to gain strategic information had gone badly, very badly indeed. The three generals had talked about wine, women, the weather, and even exchanged a few titbits of gossip about wives lying in wait to cuckold their husbands at the front. They had also spoken of how well-stocked the Italian army’s stores were, and had even mentioned how our resistance along the Piave was stronger than expected. ‘They didn’t risk discussing serious matters at dinner; they just enjoyed their food and talked hot air,’ was the steward’s comment.
The real motive behind Brian’s dare-devil landing was quite different. I later learnt from Renato that the generals’ visit was not known either by our Intelligence Service or by British Intelligence (though I never learnt how Renato kept in contact). It had been simply a stroke of luck which they decided to profit by. Brian had come to memorize the code worked out by Grandma, and a month later was to start flying over the Villa with his squadron twice a week, to photograph the three-mullioned window in the façade and the washing hanging out to dry in the courtyard.
The code was fairly simple. The first inside shutter open and the second closed meant ‘troop movements towards the front line’, the first closed and the second open meant ‘movements from the front to the rear zone’. All shutters closed meant ‘no troop movements observed’. Then, however, it became more complicated with the part played by the other shutters. The first window indicated the troop movement and its direction, the second the number of divisions or battalions involved in the movement, the third the type of movement (and I don’t know what was meant by ‘type’). The code invented for the washing, on the other hand, entailed the colour and nature of the garments hung out. Jackets, shirts, trousers and long-johns, easily distinguishable from the air by their long dangling sleeves and legs, referred to the Imperial Air Force (in her confabs with her London friend Sir James, Grandma had associated legs and arms with aircraft wings), while sheets, dishcloths and handkerchiefs gave indications of the enemy supply system. Colours had their importance also. A white shirt and red breeches combined with a yellow h
andkerchief – the only such combination I can remember – meant ‘shortage of aircraft fuel’.
‘Why don’t we use pigeons?’ I asked.
Renato laughed. ‘Don’t you read the posters on the walls? There’s martial law! If they find a single pigeon at a farm they shoot the head of the family on the spot. Then they start on the children, so in the end the mother tells them where they’ve got the birds hidden. And furthermore, don’t you know that all the way from Belluno to the sea everyone is on the hunt for food?’
Giulia threw her head back, burying it in the hay. Her firm breasts gave a testing time to the mother-of-pearl buttons of her coat. Renato was seated between us, which I didn’t exactly like.
There was a movement under the hay, from whence came a protesting voice.
‘Not now, Brian,’ said Renato quietly, without removing the pipe from his mouth.
‘What’s going on?’
‘Troops…at the gates.’
Giulia sat motionless, looking straight ahead of her, hair full of bits of hay. There was something both reckless and tender about her beauty. I searched Renato’s face for any sign betraying an interest in Giulia. Then the motorcycles began to move out, in double file. Next came the Daimlers, followed by a lorryload of soldiers and a single motorcyclist, forming the tail of that gigantic lizard that blackened the street. The sentries clicked their heels beneath the eagles of the Hohenzollern and the Hapsburgs, flapping indolently in the freezing dawn.
‘We’ll wait another minute or two,’ said Renato. The Englishman’s round face emerged from the hay.
‘It’s prickly.’
The sentries lit up their cigarettes and the guard of honour, which for all too long had been frozen to attention to salute the generals’ cars, broke up in a scramble to get some hot coffee.
‘Even Captain Korpium’s leaving.’ Renato’s voice was less brusque now.
‘Can we start?’
‘Yes, we can go now.’
Giulia and I jumped down from the haystack together and exchanged happy grins.
We climbed to the little temple, skirting the woods. The pilot walked alongside Renato, keeping to the side nearer the trees so that the sentries down below would make out three people, not four. We entered the woods as soon as we could.
‘We have to stay in the thickest cover.’
‘Are we going to the river?’
‘Yes, we’re making for the river. In a couple of hours we’ll separate, and you and Giulia will turn back,’ said Renato.
The idea of being alone in the woods with Giulia was my idea of heaven.
‘I’, announced Giulia with a despotic air, ‘want to see the Piave.’
‘No.’ Renato’s tone brooked no rejoinder. Giulia held her gasmask to her face and overtook us with a burst of speed. Then she turned, lowered the mask, and jeered, ‘Slowcoaches!’
The climb began to tell on us, but we didn’t slow up. We walked west for three hours, then took a breather beside a road that ran between the woods and some bare fields patched with snow. A hundred metres away, directly ahead of us, was a rundown farmhouse with a smoking chimney.
‘This is where we part company,’ said Renato. ‘You two go back, and if you don’t find me tomorrow morning,’ he said, looking me in the eye, ‘tell your grandmother.’
I would have liked to raise some objection, but I had no time. The steward set off briskly for the farmhouse with Brian in his wake.
Giulia had hung her gasmask from her belt. She walked quickly without looking at me. Suddenly we heard voices, German voices, approaching us through the dense woods. We exchanged glances. ‘Let’s go this way,’ I whispered.
‘They’re already here,’ she said, hugging me to her and pressing her lips to mine. I felt the tip of her tongue, warm and sweet, lick at my front teeth, enter my mouth. But the chill of a rifle barrel forced our necks apart.
‘Pretty vuman, zehr pretty,’ said the soldier standing beside the one prising us apart with his rifle, who was staring dumbly at Giulia, his lips drawn back in a grimace.
‘Me from Pola,’ continued the other soldier, his rifle slung on his shoulder and his filthy greatcoat with sleeves torn in several places. ‘Pretty redhair vuman, like our vumans,’ he said, stroking Giulia’s hair. She went on hugging me close to her, looking into my eyes with an air of being pleased with herself and not a trace of fear.
I felt the cold steel of the gun’s muzzle against my chin. I didn’t know what to do. ‘When you’re up to your neck in trouble,’ Aunt Maria had once told me, perhaps to get back at Grandpa, ‘it’s no good either praying or panicking, but praying is certainly more practical.’ I mentally clutched at that dictum of hers and began to laugh. I laughed without thinking. Giulia, quicker on the uptake than me, promptly seized on the occasion and laughed even louder, again and again, louder and louder, her eyes flashing from me to the soldiers, until in the end they were laughing too. At which point Giulia took a pace back, her face suddenly serious, and with two fingers gently pushed the gun-barrel down from my neck. The Austrian slung his weapon over his shoulder. Giulia leant her head on my shoulder and, in the unexpected silence, grinned.
The one with the Istrian accent said something in German to his companion; then, eyeing the two of us, he shook his head. ‘I love you, I love you,’ he chuckled, and gave a punch on the shoulder to the other, who was gawping at us with two tiny, expressionless eyes and baring all his teeth, few and yellow as they were.
Giulia was a blazing fire, and they hadn’t seen such a woman for goodness knows how long.
I pulled out my cigarettes, and the one from Pola removed his gloves and grabbed the packet, offering it to his friend. But the other jerked his chin towards Giulia: he wasn’t thinking about cigarettes. Whereupon the Istrian put one between his lips, lit it, and at once took his mate by surprise by jamming it into his mouth. ‘Go, go,’ he said, lighting another for himself and putting my packet in his pocket. ‘Raus, raus!’
I took Giulia’s hand and we made our way leisurely into the trees. We didn’t look back. Behind us, beyond the woodland sounds, the two German voices were interlocked. The toothless fellow was jabbering hoarsely, while the Istrian tried to calm him down with brief interjections. After a few minutes the woods reasserted their sovereignty with the sudden whirring of wings and the murmur of water flowing beneath the ice in frozen streams.
We walked on for ten minutes or so without speaking. Then Giulia gave my hand a hard squeeze.
‘You don’t know much about women, do you?’
‘Not much.’
‘Liar,’ she said, and laughed that mocking laugh of hers.
It was still dark when Teresa woke me next morning. It took me several attempts to shake the blankets off.
‘There’s an emergency!’
Grandpa turned over with much crunching, but didn’t wake up.
As I got up I realized that I had gone to bed almost fully clothed. I put on boots and overcoat and caught up with the cook.
Waiting for me in the kitchen was a tall man with dark, steady eyes, a badly shaven chin, a dirty cloak, and patched sleeves and breeches. But his smile showed an array of strong, white straight teeth. He was not a peasant, even though he wanted to pass for one.
‘You must come with me, some friends are expecting us,’ he said in dialect. But he wasn’t from the Veneto, though he was pretending to be. On our feet we drank the hot milky coffee prepared by Teresa, who eyed me in silence, without even a little grunt.
‘You have to go,’ she said, speaking for once in Italian. ‘The mistress knows about it, and Donna Maria told me,’ she added, returning to dialect.
The man walked swiftly, but I had no trouble in keeping up with him in the woods, which he seemed to know like the back of his hand. He uttered not a word, and after the first few minutes I saw it was better to say nothing and save my breath for walking.
And walk we did, for many hours, with very few breaks. When we stopped it was always in dens
e forest, away from roads and clearings. The man would produce a knife and a slab of hard cheese, offer me two mouthfuls – always two, and always the same size – and then hand me a dented flask. ‘Just a sip,’ he would say, for there was a taste of wine in the water. There was a meticulousness about whatever he did that I found reassuring.
We joined Brian and Renato at dusk, in a mountain hut up against a cliff face. I was worn out. I flopped down onto the straw mattress beside the Englishman, who no longer wore the cheerful expression I had come to know. The tall, ill-shaven man saluted Renato and clicked his heels: ‘Major…’
‘Seen any patrols?’ asked Renato, scrambling to his feet and returning the salute.
‘No, but we never left the woods.’
‘You did well, Lieutenant. Back to your duties and…thank you.’
The lieutenant left without a word, and made no gesture towards me or the Englishman. He closed the door behind him soundlessly, as if afraid of waking someone.
I then realized that one of Brian’s legs was in a splint from the knee downwards, his ankle swollen.
‘What happened?’
‘Lucky if the ankle isn’t broken…anyway, he can’t walk on it. That’s why I sent for you. Have a bite to eat, we’re leaving in ten minutes.’
Even though Brian was using a makeshift crutch, in places where the going was tough almost half of his weight was on my shoulders, and that was no feather-weight. Because of his ankle we had to skirt the woods of the Soligo valley without ever taking cover in them. The sky was clear, black, with a half-moon that, though it helped us to see the path, might betray us at any moment.
Within three or four kilometres of the Piave the enemy was everywhere. The cart-tracks, the mule-paths, and the walks along the river banks were bright with a network of fires which patrols of four to six men gathered around. Near them loomed the forms of picketed mules and horses, tents, carts, lorries, and motorbikes and bicycles propped up against the hedges and fences: survivors of the hard-won peace treaty which bound hard-working folks to the world of nature.
Between Enemies Page 8
